


In Sickness and in Health

by TimelessRiver



Series: Somewhere Down That Road [5]
Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, no angst for once, obligatory sick fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 14:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20743976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimelessRiver/pseuds/TimelessRiver
Summary: “Hey now, I wouldn’t get too close if I were you; wouldn’t want you to catch whatever the hell this is.”Mike rose up from his place on the sofa and stretched his arms above his head.“That’s a chance that I’m willing to take. I think you’re worth it.”Scott smirked and rolled his eyes at Mike’s earnest enthusiasm. How much further could this guy burrow himself into Scott’s heart? It was a bud that bloomed throughout his entire core from the brush of fingertips on his skin; the way the sun felt warmer on their afternoon excursions. Or maybe Mike just carried within him a piece of the sun, himself, and that followed Scott wherever he went.





	In Sickness and in Health

**Author's Note:**

> Long time, no see! I’m back with yet another addition to my Mike/Scott series because my previous entries have garnered so much positive feedback. I’m extremely grateful to those of you who’ve taken the time to share your thoughts with me; it means more than words can adequately express! Perhaps it’s worth mentioning that I have a tumblr under the same handle as AO3, LushHelianthus, so feel free to drop me a line if any of you are interested in collaborating on a fic or discussing this marvelous film💛🌻

The sounds of wind and thunder thrashing against the windows were enough to wake the dead, or at least a very ill Scott. Close enough. Scott woke with a yelp, rising up from his position on the sofa, and hissed in pain as the pop of his neck sent waves of discomfort through his body; as if it wasn’t already sore enough from the aches that came with being sick as a dog. Scott could hear the quick footfalls of someone approaching and craned his neck toward the archway that separated the den from the kitchen. Mike, of course, ever the concerned housemate.

“You all right, Scotty? Thought I heard you from the other room.” Mike asked, toeing a loose piece of fabric from the rug with a socked foot.

“Aside from getting scared out of my skin from the weather, couldn’t be better!” Scott responded sarcastically, punctuating every few words with wet coughs.

“Even when you’re sick you can’t resist making a scene, huh?”

“I was _asleep_ and the noise startled me. Not all of us check out completely when we rest, Sleeping Beauty.”

Mike laughed and padded closer to Scott, taking a seat at his side on the sofa that wasn’t occupied by his sprawl.

“Okay, okay, I’ll let it slide. How’re you feelin,’ anyway?”

“Well, my throat’s raw as hell and my head feels like it’s full of bees. The usual.” Scott stated matter-of-factly before opening his eyes to take in what little of Mike’s face that he could. Head spinning with the burden of consciousness, he closed his eyes again and settled back into the pillows. He was on the verge of sleep when he felt a hand in his hair again, gently massaging the base of his neck as dexterous fingers weaved their way through his dark locks.

Scott couldn’t help but crane his head toward the minimal comfort that his position would allow.

“What do you think you’re doing, man?” Scott swallowed the lump that formed in his throat as his speech tumbled over it. He then felt more than heard words mumbled into his ear

“Touchin’ you, is all. That a problem? Gotta make myself useful somehow, you know.”

Mike paused his ministrations to press a kiss to Scott’s jaw on the skin below his ear, and Scott shuddered.

“Hey now, I wouldn’t get too close if I were you; wouldn’t want you to catch whatever the hell this is.”

Mike rose up from his place on the sofa and stretched his arms above his head.

“That’s a chance that I’m willing to take. I think you’re worth it.”

Scott smirked and rolled his eyes at Mike’s earnest enthusiasm. How much further could this guy burrow himself into Scott’s heart? It was a bud that bloomed throughout his entire core from the brush of fingertips on his skin; the way the sun felt warmer on their afternoon excursions. Or maybe Mike just carried within him a piece of the sun, himself, and that followed Scott wherever he went.

There was a word for this, he knew, one that he’d only just begun using liberally; peppering it into his speech whenever the opportunities presented themselves, and that Mike ate up as eagerly as he would any scrap of food he’d found during their bygone days as petty thieves.

“You must be hungry, even if only a little bit. I think I’m gonna go scrounge something up in the kitchen.”

“Sounds good, Mikey, but don’t go out of your way. I don’t think my stomach can handle much.”

Mike stood and made his way for the kitchen, pausing only when he heard Scott mumble out, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, but you know that.”

Mike gave him a smile, the only light in the entire room, no thanks to the gloom outside of their window.

“I love you, too, Scott.”

Mike flicked on the kitchen light and took to the cupboards in search of something halfway decent for Scott. Preferably something soft and light; enough to sate his hunger, but not enough to upset his sensitive stomach.

“Man, nothing but breakfast food.” Mike muttered, moving about some... _stale _bagels (when was the last time they’d shopped?) and some bouillon cubes. Upon closer inspection, tucked away in a corner, was a wooden box. Mike reached for it and pulled it from the shelf to examine its contents.

“Huh... well, what do ya know. Looks like... recipes?” Mike frowned in concentration, eyeing down the rows of perfectly alphabetized cards. There were recipes of all kinds from cakes to candies, pastas and salads, soups and—wait a minute. “Soup? Let’s see... what do we have here?” Mike set the box down and lifted from it several cards. Within the small deck were a tomato bisque, cream of mushroom, sweet potato, and chicken noodle. Mike recalled the few times he’d been sick as a child. Richard would care for him as best he could by heating cans of soup for him to eat when his stomach was too sour to bear the weight of anything else. The soup was always entirely too salty, making him crave water, but it was the best that they could manage. Richard was a kindhearted sort when he wanted to be; rubbing Mike’s back with his head in his lap and changing out his sheets when he thought they’d become contaminated.

Maybe he’d give his brother a call sometime. Maybe. For now, he was most concerned with Scott, and this was his most significant find. Surely they had ingredients lying around for such a simple soup recipe, right?

The recipe called for a very specific type of chicken broth; one that would require the bones of an actual chicken, which Mike had no access to. He eyed the bouillon on the countertop and frowned. “What kind of maniac just wakes up one morning and slaughters their bird?” His grimace fled as quickly as it came when he realized he wouldn’t have to endure such a task and instead took to claiming a large pot from the cupboard below the counter.

“Wonder what kind of trouble’s in the freezer...” Mike opened the freezer and, much like the cabinets from before, found that not much lie within aside from a few bags of frozen vegetables and select meats that had been frost-burnt from neglect. The vegetables were a blend of carrots and broccoli, while the meats were packages of ground beef and chicken breasts. The recipe specifically called for kale, carrots, onion, and celery, but perhaps these would suffice. The chicken, sorry state as it was, could still be salvaged if properly seasoned.

Mike bit his lip and opened the plastic bag containing the chicken and placed it into the pot with some oil. He tried desperately to recall the brief crash course in cooking that his brother gave him when he was young.

_“Remember, Mikey, turn the heat down when the oil starts to pop or else you’ll scorch yourself somethin’ fierce.”_

_“Right, Dick.”_

_“And put a shirt on, will ya? You weren’t raised in a barn, ya know.”_

_“Yeah, Dick.”_

Mike couldn’t help but smile at the thought of how much he and his brother locked horns; he sure could be a little shit sometimes, he admitted, but Richard always took it in stride.

Mike lowered the heat and put a lid on the top to allow the chicken to defrost more. The chicken would have to be hot enough to remove and chop into finer pieces before adding it to the rest of the ingredients. In the meantime, Mike stood in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room and watched Scott quietly as he slept. If there were anything he cherished about living in such close proximity to Scott, it was his ability to observe every minute detail that made up how beautiful he was to Mike. Sometimes he wasn’t sure whether to be envious or impressed by Scott’s ability to appear so picturesque even in the throes of a coughing fit, hair disheveled and clothing stained, but that’s the sort of thing that love did to a person, he supposed. Scott stirred, softly snoring between labored breaths, and Mike huffed a laugh at the sight: _The _Scott Favor, relying on a guy like him to tend to his needs; it was almost poetic.

Mike turned and made his way back to the stovetop.

“Looks about done... now, what next?” Mike mumbled, removing the chicken and placing it on a plastic cutting board. He reached for a knife, one of the fancier ones among a set of culinary knives on the countertop, and began chopping the chicken breasts into smaller pieces with the same modest precision that he was taught to. Richard was always wary of allowing Mike to handle objects like this, as he could be prone to unsteadiness due to his narcolepsy. One clumsy slip of his hand could lead to a serious injury, so he often avoided handling things that required constant vigilance.

“Alright, I think that’ll do it.”

Mike set aside the chicken and opened the bags of mixed vegetables, dumped them into the pot, and looked over the recipe once more. It indicated that he’d need fresh parsley, black pepper, and two bay leaves. Mike knew that there were no fresh herbs in the fridge; not even _noodles_ to add to the soup, but plenty of dry seasonings in the cupboard. After retrieving the few that he needed, all that remained was to whisk in the bouillon cubes with six cups of water. Mike set the heat to high so that the water would begin boiling and commingling with the seasonings.

“Right, now all that’s left is... adding the chicken back in.” Mike mumbled, retrieving the plate of chopped chicken to mix with the rest of the soup. After the soup reached a boil, he placed the lid atop the pot and reduced the heat to medium-low. It would be about a half-hour before the soup would be palatable enough to eat, but Mike knew that foods like soup and chili always tasted better the next day. Still, he hoped that Scott would find his effort admirable enough with this being his first real attempt at anything of the sort.

Mike returned to the doorway and observed Scott, still asleep, but beginning to toss and turn from an oncoming coughing fit. He wasn’t at all properly elevated, the fool, so it was no wonder why he had begun struggling. Mike approached the couch and knelt down to Scott’s sleeping frame, placed a hand on his shoulder, and shook him gently. “Hey—hey, Scotty, wake up.” Scott groaned and opened his eyes, squinting at the light coming from the kitchen, and sniffed in disgust. “Ugh, what is it, Mike? Where’s the fire, huh?” Scott frowned at Mike, but he could only smile at his petulance. “You were choking on your own spit, man; it was the least I could do, you know, waking you up.” Scott laughed humorlessly at this. “Ha, my _hero._ Michael has come to my rescue yet again.” Scott ground out, his voice rough with disuse. Scott placed his hand atop Mike’s that remained on his shoulder and raised it so that it now cupped his cheek. Mike smiled wider, cheeks flaring at the simple touch of his own fingers against Scott’s skin. Mike stroked his thumb in circles on Scott’s cheek, a gesture that he hoped was soothing, all the while Scott’s eyes never leaving his. Mike’s eyes were one of Scott’s favorite features with how full of life they were even in darkness. Scott tried to remember when the last time someone had looked at him with such uninhibited tenderness; eyes that were only for him. It was only his mother, his _true_ mother, that came to mind; though, she had been gone far longer than he cared to think about in that moment. 

Scott settled back against the pillow and breathed deeply, or as deeply as his lungs would allow in his state, and sighed contently beneath the soothing touch of Mike’s ministrations. He’d never admit it aloud, but he rather enjoyed a fair bit of coddling once in a while. Given the playful nature between the two of them, Mike would never let him live it down; the teasing would be relentless, but he’d tolerate it if it meant being doted on.

“Say, Mikey, I can hardly smell for shit but I could swear there’s something tasty brewing in the kitchen, yeah?”

Mike smirked and paused his touch, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Why, as a matter of fact, there is, good sir. I made it especially for you, and maybe there’s a chance that you’ll even recognize the flavor.”

Truthfully, Mike had reason to doubt that it would taste at all like the recipe found in the cabinet, but he still had to _try_. Surely it had meant something meaningful to have been kept for so long, right?

“Gotta admit that I’m kinda starving as it is, so I’m sure I’ll like anything you give me at this point.” Scott folded his arms behind his head and yawned dramatically, eyes drifting shut. “Maybe after all’s said and done, you’ll join me in this nest of blankets and keep me company, hmm?” Mike snorted a laugh and rose from his position on the floor to look at Scott properly. “Yeah right, Scotty, I suppose breathing will be perfectly comfortable under my weight, won’t it?” Mike rolled his eyes, but Scott laughed openly. “Ha! As if that ever _cough_ stopped you before!” Mike’s face scorched at this as he rubbed at the back of his neck nervously. God dammit, Scott. Leave it to him to bring it back around to _that,_ of all things.

“Alright, alright, you’ve had your fun at my expense, man. I’m gonna go check on the food now and _maybe_ I’ll consider coming back.”

“Right, Mike, as if you could ever keep away.”

“Don’t kid yourself, asshole!”

Mike crossed his arms and made his way back to the kitchen, barely sparing Scott a glance, but enough so that he could see Scott’s signature shit-eating grin across his face as he waggled his fingers in a wave, throwing his arm across his eyes theatrically.

“Parting is such sweet _cough _sorrow!”

Mike glanced at the kitchen timer, which was just about finished. By this point, the chicken and vegetables were already cooked thoroughly enough to be served, so he stopped the timer and examined the contents of the pot. With the heat reduced, it would be ready to scoop into bowls.

Mike removed the pot’s lid and inhaled the scent of the broth. It wasn’t at all as strong as he thought it should be, but definitely good enough for someone like him who had no prior experience in cooking a meal so elaborate as this. As happy as he was that it was complete, he wouldn’t consider it a success unless Scott was satisfied. The thought was enough to worry him. Would Scott be offended by its inaccuracy? Would he laugh at his clumsy attempt at salvaging forgotten produce? He didn’t think that Scott would be so cruel, but he oftentimes had a strange way of communicating his feelings. They’d both come a long way since they’d begun living with one another, Mike most notably so, and he could still see the bridge between the two of them forming in the distance beneath the rubble of a past that they’d left behind in search of better things. And yet...

Mike felt his hands grow clammy at the thought, and he trembled. No, this was not going to happen now at this very moment. He breathed in slowly in a practiced fashion, forcing down the mounting panic, and exhaled.

It would be all right.

There was a ladle sitting in a glass kitchen tool holder on the counter, which Mike used to spoon the soup into a bowl.

“Alright, here we go.” Mike murmured, plodding his way back to the den, stepping carefully to avoid spilling the soup, and placed the bowl on the coffee table. He knelt down to sit in front of the couch, and Scott, having slept lightly enough to hear him approach, opened his eyes to meet Mike’s gaze. Scott sat up, stretching his arms out before him, and rose to a sitting position.

“Ah, so this is it, huh? Can’t go wrong with soup on a day like this. Where’s yours?”

Scott frowned and took the bowl in his lap, stirring it idly with his spoon, and Mike tensed. “Oh, uh—right, I uh, wanted to give you the honors of trying it out first, I guess.”

Truthfully, Mike had completely forgotten to prepare a bowl for himself in his haste and was only concerned about Scott’s wellbeing. It’d already been quite a while since he last ate, he suspected, and he certainly ought to have eaten a meal before now.

“Eh, suit yourself.” Scott quipped, and raised the spoon to his lips. It had already cooled over enough to eat from the surface, thankfully. Scott swallowed down the first bite with great effort, so it seemed, from the look of discomfort on his face, but it all at once softened from the welcomed warmth that coated his otherwise sore throat.

“Hey, this isn’t half-bad, Mikey. Did you come up with this all on your own?” Mike’s shoulders relaxed from the tension that he’d gathered there. At least Scott seemed pleased with it.

“No, it wasn’t all me. I kinda followed along with a recipe I found up in the cabinet.”

Scott turned away, as if he were deep in thought, then asked, “Was it inside of a small box?”

“Uh, yeah, just a small wooden box along with a bunch of others. I don’t know, I figured soup might be the best thing...” Mike trailed off, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap and avoiding Scott’s gaze.

“Huh... I’ll be honest, Mikey, it hardly tastes like mom’s, but it’s pretty damn good as it is. You really outdid yourself on this one.”

Mike allowed his lungs to deflate from the breath he’d been holding, and was taken aback by Scott’s approval.

“Your _mom’s_?”

“Yeah, if I’m not mistaken, that recipe box was hers. There wasn’t much that she was allowed to do towards the end of her life, but it didn’t keep her away from cooking... It means a lot that you even tried to do this at all, Mike.”

Scott leaned forward and set the bowl back on the table and moved to make room on the sofa, patting the empty space. “Well?” Scott asked, eyes gleaming despite the residual exhaustion in them. Mike didn’t have to be told twice as he rose from the floor and took a seat beside Scott, who wasted no time in pulling Mike into a tight embrace against his chest. Even after their months of living with one another so intimately, it were actions like this that stole away any concept of time. It was both his favorite place and greatest weakness: the privilege of being at Scott’s side each day.

Mike lay his cheek against Scott’s shoulder, relaxing in his hold, and sighed when he felt Scott’s fingers carding through his hair.

“You still surprise me all the time, Mikey. Where did you learn your way around a kitchen, huh?”

“Bits and pieces from my brother, mostly, or... what I can remember of his directions, at least.”

“That’s fair, considering your circumstances. I don’t suppose ‘ol Dick was much a connoisseur of the culinary arts, himself, eh?”

“No, but he’s still an artist in his own way, ya know.”

“Ah...”

Right then, Mike felt more than heard Scott stifle a cough against his shoulder as he pulled away; though, never releasing Mike from his arms.

“I’d better let you go, Mike. God forbid you catch whatever the hell this nightmare is.”

Mike scoffed as if Scott had just suggested the most ridiculous thing in all the lands of the Earth, rolling his eyes.

“You think I care about that?”

“Heh, you should.”

“I think I care about you a little more.”

“That so?”

“Yeah... I don’t suppose you’d still like some company here, would you?”

Mike’s eyes flickered in the dim light of the room, still dark from the brewing storm just outside of their door, and Scott claimed that moment to thank whatever powers that be that they no longer lived in fear of such things. How many nights had Mike spent waiting out the rain in city underpasses?

“I think I could make tonight an exception.”

Scott smiled, and Mike mirrored it with enthusiasm. 

Scott leaned back against the arm of the couch to renegotiate their positions with Mike’s head atop his chest. Mike felt the steady rise and fall of Scott’s breath as he allowed his eyes to fall shut. The combined beat of his heart along with the rain outside formed a cadence of calm that he wouldn’t have sacrificed for the world.

He felt a hand in his hair again; Scott’s fingertips working through the strands to detangle little knots that had formed as he’d been cooking before. Mike’s hair had been growing longer than he was used to having it, and he’d considered having it cut, but Scott convinced him otherwise when he’d said that it framed his face beautifully.

“I really do appreciate what you did, you know.” Scott’s voice broke through Mike’s silent reverie, but remained still as he continued, “Even though you didn’t know those recipes were my mother’s, it still means a lot to feel her presence through your effort.”

“Well, you’ve done a lot for me lately, Scott. It was the least I could do.”

“You do a lot for me, too.”

“How about we’ve just done a lot for _each __other__._This ain’t a competition.”

Mike’s words were soft-spoken but left no room for argument, and Scott found them to be true.

“I guess you’re right, Mikey. You save me all the time, though.”

“Heh, now that’s where I call bullshit, man. I’m living in _your _place.”

“That’s true, but I’ve made a home in your heart for far longer, I suspect.”

Mike lifted his head to face Scott properly, making a last-ditch effort to laugh off the words that had made his stomach jump. 

“Jesus, you must be fading fast to resort to this kind of pining. Don’t pass out on me, now.”

“Come on now, Michael, don’t be like that. You know how it feels.”

Mike swallowed, then. 

“How what feels?”

Scott leaned forward until their foreheads touched, and chuckled when Mike went momentarily cross-eyed.

“To wanna be someone’s precious thing.”

Mike felt the air leave his lungs in a rush, his body suddenly too cold from the smallest space between them, and lunged straight for Scott’s chest. Scott was then effectively pinned to the arm of the sofa, arms suddenly full of a ravenously affectionate Michael Waters who’d taken to pressing as many kisses into Scott’s neck as he could in the shortest amount of time possible. Scott laughed between coughs and sneezes and used what little strength he had left in his body to still Mike long enough to kiss him properly. 

Inside, there were no storms. 


End file.
